


I am still learning (how to do the easy things)

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Forgiveness, Gen, Post Hive, Post-Season/Series 03, Prompt Fic, skoulsonfest2k16redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>She finds him every few months.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am still learning (how to do the easy things)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skyepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I am still learning how to do the easy things](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/218212) by Fortesa Latifi. 



> I really wanted to squeeze this tiny thing into the #skoulsonfest2k16redux but didn't know how to write it.  
> I hope it's readable.

She finds him every few months, shyly at first, and slowly, the way the sun dries the raindrops on the ground, like it’s the easiest thing in existence but like it needs the attention of the whole world to be done. It all starts on his way to the gate, when he’s not paying attention to his surroundings, focused only on his luggage and ticket; she purposefully bumps into him as he’s buying coffee, carefully that he doesn’t get any of it spilled on his coat.  
  
He doesn’t dare to say anything, really; he just freezes on the spot, looks at her, looks her in the eye, something pulling and tugging at him like there is something he urgently needs to say or do, something pushing at him from inside like he’s going to explode right here, the hot cup in his hand the only thing that keeps his feet on the ground and his words stuck in his throat; this is reality.  
  
He blinks, and she’s gone.

She finds him every few months, indirectly at first, and carefully, the way the moon still lights the street long after life has moved behind curtains and locked doors, like it’s something that must be hidden, something that needs to be protected from the rest of the universe as soon as it gets dark. The next time it happens, he’s on a train, reading the news, trying to avoid wiping away the sweat on his neck for fear of exposing the wire of his earpiece. She just walks into his second-class compartment, politely asks around if she may sit on the only remaining free seat, pushes her backpack onto his suitcase.  
  
It feels like the whole train just hit a wall, like his position between the elderly lady with the crime novel and the misanthropist with the comb-over is what forces him to stay quiet and composed, ever though his shaking hands betray him as he turns the page.  
  
She looks only at him as she says good-bye. She’s getting off two stops before he does.

She still finds him a year later, quietly, and very gently, like the stream pushes its leaves, perseveringly, but like it doesn’t need much attention. It happens when he’s lying in bed, his unopened suitcase standing in the middle of the motel room, her weight almost imperceptibly lifting him from his pillows. Her searching arm finds his elbow; he’s fully dressed, his shoes the only thing unprotected by the blanket. It takes him only a moment to release the breath he was holding, his little sigh allowing her to stay until dawn.  
  
She leaves the way she came: unseen and unheard, the small dent in the mattress the only thing betraying her.  
  
He decides to steal the other pillow.

It takes another year before she finds him again; silently, still, but very intentionally. She sits at his kitchen table one morning, her feet pulled up, the shutters half-opened. The two mugs her palms hide are almost touching each other. Maybe it’s the shy sunlight, maybe it’s her unconditional smile; he doesn’t speak. He walks up to the table, places his palms on the edge of the table as he sits down, curls his toes to protect them from the cold kitchen floor.  
  
All it takes is the small nod she gives him as she hands him a mug.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. You guys really don't know how much I appreciate it.
> 
> Inspired by a poem by the wonderful Fortesa Latifi:
> 
>   
> 
> _There is sadness that has been living in my bones_   
>  _longer than I’ve been walking upright. Longer than_   
>  _the willow in the front yard has been weeping._   
>  _No one knows what it’s saying but it sounds_   
>  _a lot like prayer. It sounds a lot like penance._
> 
>  
> 
>  _I am still hurting and I am still lying about it._  
>  _There is no soft way to say that sometimes_  
>  _I forget to breathe so I skip that and ask_  
>  _what’s for dinner instead._  
> 
>  
> 
>  _I am still learning how to do the easy things_  
>  _like eat when I’m hungry and leave my bed every day._  
>  _I am still learning to twist my tongue around words_  
>  _that resemble the truth. I am still falling asleep_  
>  _with hope suffocating between my clasped fingers_.  
>  _I am still falling in love with the moon. I am still_  
>  _stepping around broken glass and thinking_  
>  _that counts as strength. I am still hoping_  
>  _the world ends before we do._


End file.
